


If I Fell In Love With You

by anomalousity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Field Trip, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Underage Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:23:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2012595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalousity/pseuds/anomalousity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s that you’re doing?”</p><p>He pauses in his mindless tapping to glance up at Dean before tilting his head. “Inspiration est un invité qui ne visite pas volontiers les paresseux,” he says, raising an eyebrow. Dean just eyes him for a moment, trying to decide if he should be insulted going by the tone of his voice or not. It's not like he should be expected to respond to someone throwing words back at him in a different language.</p><p>This is America for God’s sake, if d’Espoir came to learn English he should be speaking it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Fell In Love With You

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written Dean/Cas since the Crusades, wow.
> 
> In other not so related news, if you want to request something or if you want to draw something I'm [subbastianstan](http://buckybaarnes.co.vu/) on tumblr and you can message me there.
> 
> Title shamelessly taken from a [Beatles song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kPKYPI1jjdg).

None of the other kids really liked him all too much.

“So are you like a mime or something?”

“… and why do you always stare like that? Am I gonna catch some weird foreign disease from all of your staring?”

“ _Nobody_ likes the French.”

“What the hell kinda name is that?”

“Can’t you just do my homework for me? I’ll pay you in PB&J!”

Their teacher, Miss Mills, looks less than thrilled by the kid too, but then again, she looks pissed off at just about everyone at Lawrence Elementary. Maybe it was because they were all scheduled to go on for engineering and sciences; maybe it was because they were all snot-nosed brats. Excepting Dean, of course; he was a perfect angel.

She rolls her eyes and tries to divert the jeers and insults from the new boy, standing with his books clutched tight to his chest and pink on his cheeks. It didn’t help that he dressed like someone out of the Victorian era; he was wearing honest to God breaches with a little bow tie and a pocket watch to boot. The minute he spoke, “I Castiel,” on the first day of school, nearly two months ago, the entire classroom burst into hysterics, Dean included but not with ill intentions. He felt bad for the kid; no one should cry on their first day, and he spent the rest of the day trying to cheer him up by asking him dumb questions about baguettes and the Eiffel Tower and slightly less dumb questions about the countryside.

Regardless, Dean tries to ignore everyone else as Miss Mills assigns them their squads for the day. They get to go to the museum and explore all of the advancements in combustion engines since the 1920’s. Jo’s practically bouncing beside him, little hand clamped tight around his wrist. Dean’s just trying to wait it out until he gets there.

“Kids,” Miss Mills says. Then a little louder, she yells, “Ingrates!”

The hush that falls over the room is heavy on Dean’s shoulders. He just barely manages not to flinch when Miss Mills’ cold eyes meet his own. She scans her small class just once before turning her attention to the paper in her hands.

“I don’t want any complaining about assignments, you hear?” The kids all nod that they do hear. “Good, now shut up while I read this off.”

Jo’s hand is tight on his elbow as she reads off the names, group after group being assigned until it’s only Dean, Jo, the weird kid with the mullet, and the foreign exchange student. The other kids are buzzing with excitement to get onto the buses and start planning their trip, but Dean’s just got these awkward butterflies bouncing off the edges of his stomach.

Miss Mills looks down at the four of them and snorts to herself before clearing her throat and announcing that everyone has to be on the bus in ten otherwise they’re leaving without them.

The class starts making their way out of the classroom, and Dean just slumps. This was supposed to be a _fun_ trip, not something where he spends half the time babysitting the mullet kid- he has a weird name, something like Arnold, but not quiet Arnold- and the other half making sure he doesn’t make a dumbass of himself in front of the boy wonder from overseas.

Who, as it seems, isn’t paying the rest of them any attention. Dean watches as he idly taps his toes, eyes on his fingers which are doing this funky twitching thing in the air, and before Dean can really stop himself he asks, “What’s that you’re doing?”

He pauses in his mindless tapping to glance up at Dean before tilting his head. “L'Inspiration est un invité qui ne visite pas volontiers les paresseux,” he says, raising an eyebrow. Dean just eyes him for a moment, trying to decide if he should be insulted going by the tone of his voice or not. Right when he’s considering whether or not he should tell d’Espoir to cram his funny words, Mullet Guy breaks into raucous guffaws, wiping a tear from his eye and turning to the kid.

“Mec, tu ne pouvais pas sortir un plus gros cliché que Tchaikovsky.”

Dean turns to look over at Jo, whose eyes are wide on the boys speaking fluent French as though it was just a normal thing in Kansas of all places. Mullet Guy waves his arms excitedly, and occasionally Dean can hear the name of a famous contemporary composer slip into the rapid ‘peu’s and assorted ‘la’s. This is America for God’s sake, if d’Espoir came to learn English he should be speaking it.

“Hey, uh, we should probably head to the bus,” Dean murmurs, scratching the back of his head as the boys pause in their conversation. Mullet Guy nods his head and turns to say something to the foreign exchange student, who just rolls his eyes and nods at Dean and Jo.

“I shall f-follow you to the transportation,” he murmurs with that odd, fluid accent of his. He can hear Jo stifle a laugh, but Dean does no such thing. He just smiles at the kid and turns on his heel, leading the way to the buses.

The ride is long, well, not really but it _feels_ long with Jo’s fingers clamped tight over his own, despite how much he wants to swap seats with Mullet Guy –er, Ash. Ash is sitting with d’Espoir, chattering excitedly in words Dean doesn’t know and occasionally glancing in his and Jo’s direction, face red when his eyes flick to Jo. Dean sighs and turns back around, nudging Jo’s shoulder.

“Where do you wanna go first?” he asks, scrutinizing the map of the museum.

“Um,” she says, drawing out the –em sound. “How about we visit the ancient construction technology, then weaponry mechanics?”

Dean nods, jotting the order down in his notebook and scrawling their names at the top of the sheet. Dean Winchester, Joanna-Beth Harvelle, Vyacheslav Konstantinovichi (where the hell he got ‘Ash’ out of that is something Dean’s trying hard not to think about), and Castiel d’Espoir. He jots the date after Castiel’s name, followed by Miss Mills’ name.

They arrive not ten minutes later, with much idle chat on Jo’s part, and more half listening to Castiel and Ash’s conversation a few rows behind them. As soon as the driver parks, the class is standing and screaming, jumping out of their seats and pushing past each other to get into the museum and look at things that had a much higher risk of blowing up half a century ago than they do today.

Miss Mills stands at the front, mean grimace overtaking her soft features. “Hey, single file lines, everybody! Yes, I’m looking at you Fitzgerald; shut it, mister.” The skinny kid towards the front quits his jumping and finally listens. “All right, we meet up for lunch at the lobby, and after that you’re free to look at whatever you want until two o’clock on. the. dot. No exceptions.”

Dean waits until she finally finishes her headcount to push past the throngs of ten year olds and out into the sunshine, taking in all that is the massive museum. He’s only been here once with his mom, but she brought Sammy with so it was totally _not_ awesome.

This time, though, he’s with people his own age and if he’s lucky, maybe he’ll convince them to go look at something truly awesome like the mint condition classic cars from the second world war, or the replicas of rocket engines and NASA spaceman suits. Hopefully Jo won’t want to look at the guns for too long. Dean doesn’t understand why she likes looking at old musket rifles from the Civil War when there are much cooler, newer things just begging to be explored.

He starts when someone bumps into his shoulder, jolting him enough to stagger a few steps. He turns with a glare, “Hey asshole, watch where you walk!”

Castiel blinks down at him curiously. After an awkward pause, and more than a little awkward lip twisting on Castiel’s part, he replies, “What is ‘asshole’?” in that ridiculous accent.

Dean just sighs before stuffing his hands in his pockets and smiling up at the kid. “It’s you, asshole,” he replies, nudging Castiel’s chest with his shoulder. He still looks thoroughly confused, but at least he’s got this stupid little smile pulling at his lips and scrunching his eyes, and Jesus, Dean feels sorta warm all over.

He nudges back again, this time gruffly muttering, “Let’s get inside, Dernier.”

Storming ahead, he tries his best not to pay attention to what Castiel says to Ash, but he does catch ‘Captain America’ in his rapid words and grins to himself before kicking up his speed and sprinting to the museums front doors.

It’s always so big, going to a building like this. Dean is smart enough to know that it never changes size and that, relatively speaking, it’s actually getting smaller, but maybe it’s just something built inside of him that makes him look at it that way. Like his perspective is growing along with his body. He pushes past the employees waving the guests through and enters the maritime travel exhibit, peering from bow to bow and uniform to uniform.

He’s learned from his mother to never glorify the military. His father, from what he’d heard, came back a husk of a man, and deserted less than a week after Sammy was born. All Dean has for a memory is a stubbly face and the strong scent of whiskey and vomit mingling in an unholy cocktail.

He startles with a growl when someone’s hand lands on his shoulder, and he turns to Jo’s bright eyes and Ash’s slightly more worried ones.

“Thundercats are go, muchacho?” he asks, a little crease forming between his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Dean lies. “Let’s go look at some Egyptian pulley systems.”

They make their way through exhibit after exhibit, carefully marking down which places they needed to cross anyhow on their sheet before moving on to the next place. When they finally arrive at the ancient construction technologies display, they have to fight through a crowd to even get a look at it.

Castiel pops up beside him once he pushes past a rather large older women with a frown and mutters, “"Vieille sorcière,” under his breath.

“Les gens aspirant,” Dean replies, hoping that he didn’t screw up the pronunciation too bad. Growing up a curious kid, of course he’d tried to learn just about every language. Still is trying. He shifts his weight from foot to foot as Castiel gives him this weird, surveying look, like he’s trying to find all of Dean’s secrets so he can blackmail him or something.

Eventually, however, he smiles and it’s _awesome_. Breathtaking, even, if Dean were a stupid romance writer who liked to write about how someone’s stupid blue eyes were like the stormy sea in Maine, or more appropriately, the calm waters of the Normandy coast on a cloudy day.

Okay, maybe they’re breathtaking, but Dean’s never writing that shit if he has any say about it.

Jo bumps into his side not a moment later, probably saving him from doing something unseemly like crying or hugging or God knows what. He knows his blushing, and going by the way her eyes go to his cheeks, so does she, but he ignores her and points at the lever.

“Pull the lever, Kronk!”

She giggles and glances up at it. “Wrong lever!”

Ash catches up to them just as they’re leaving, and makes a big show of whining about how he was the only one who didn’t get to see how the Pharaohs ejected invaders from their residences, or made an escape. Castiel reassures him in French, but Ash fakes a feint, hands clamping down on Castiel’s shoulders and pulling their bodies snug.

When Dean realizes he’s staring, and that Castiel is staring back with this quizzical expression, he blushes bright and looks away.

“I wanna go look at cars,” he announces before sprinting down some random hall. He doesn’t even bother to wait for his group, just shoves past the old and young alike until he’s lost in some weird geology exhibit with only a couple of geodes to accompany him.

Or, well, a couple of geodes and a French kid with far too good eyesight.

“Dean,” Castiel whispers a few feet behind him. It doesn’t stop Dean from jumping out of his skin and shouting out something that his mother would make him wash his mouth out for. “I give my apologize,” Castiel amends a moment later.

“I think you mean apologies,” Dean whispers back, finally turning around to find Castiel hunched on the floor with his head between his knees. He sneaks a little closer, noticing that Castiel’s hands are clamped tight over his ankles, his chest heaving as he peers up at Dean through wide blue eyes. “Are you okay?”

Castiel shakes his head and murmurs, “Eau,” under his breath.

Dean scrambles to pull off his backpack and rummage through its contents until he unearths a water bottle and puts it in Castiel’s hands. Then, he wraps an arm around the taller boy’s shoulders and tugs him close, helping him lift the bottle to his lips and listening for the click of his throat when he swallows. He waits for his breathing to slow back to normal to pull the water from his lips and press an ear to his chest, listening to make sure he doesn’t have asthma or anything.

When Castiel’s hands fumble over his shoulders and softly push him away, Dean fixates him with what must be a confused look.

“I-” Castiel’s nose wrinkles a moment before he quietly burps. “Désolé,” he murmurs, blushing a little. “I, um, often have this dizziness from moving too, um, uh-” His face just gets redder, and he covers his face with his hands, murmuring ‘I have sorry’ quietly.

“Hey,” Dean says, tugging his wrists until he lets his hands fall into his lap. “Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault you’re dizzy or you haven’t mastered the language yet. You’re, like, ten, dude!” He waits until Castiel nods to ask, “Do you need more water?”

He fingers the lip of the bottle when Castiel shakes his head, before sighing and bringing it to his lips. He figures that maybe he can get some food in Castiel if they make it to the cafeteria quickly enough, but he might have to carry him back. It’s an idea, he notes, that he’s not necessarily opposed to.

Dean’s too lost in his thoughts to notice Castiel’s wide eyes on his mouth, then flashing back up to his eyes, until it’s too late. Water spills over Dean’s legs when Castiel pulls it away and… and presses his lips where the bottle was.

It’s so weird; he’s seen his mom kiss her boyfriends before, but it was just on the cheek or these awkward eating kisses that, if she saw him or Sammy in the room, she’d pull away and excuse herself to take them into a different room. This kiss isn’t like that at all. It’s lighter, softer, and Dean feels his eyes fluttering shut before he can really register it, and digging his fingers into the soaked fabric bunched at his knees.

A moment later, Castiel is pulling away with pink cheeks and a shy smile. Dean’s cheeks sting, so he’s assuming that he’s reciprocating it in full, feeling warm from head to toe and more than a little electrified.

Okay, maybe those stupid writers were right about a couple of things because Castiel’s eyes are freaking awesome.

“I desire to- I wish,” Castiel stutters, blushing harder and reaching for Dean’s hands. Dean rubs his thumbs over Castiel’s wrist, hoping to coax some nervousness out of the poor kid. “Merci, Dean.”

He knows enough French to know that one. With a shy smile, he ducks his head and shrugs, hands tensing over Castiel’s as he mumbles half assed ‘it was nothing’s and dismissals. When he looks back up, Castiel’s eyes are wide and focused on his mouth, and Dean just rolls his eyes before leaning forward and kissing him again. And again, and again, and again, until footsteps and a sigh interrupt them and they break apart with a gasp.

Miss Mills is glaring down at them, but it looks like she’s fighting a smile with the way her chin keeps twitching. Dean decides it means he’s not in too much trouble, so he just keeps his hands in Castiel’s and stares up at his teacher.

She clears her throat after a minute before saying, “You’re an hour late for lunch, boys.” Her gaze is unforgiving, but after another sigh, she runs her fingers through her hair and her shoulders slump in resignation. “Oh, if you’re going to make moon eyes, go do it at each other, I’m not paid enough for this.”

And with that, she dismisses the rest of the class to ‘burn off some of that darn energy’ before turning on her heel and walking out of the exhibit. When the rest of the children disperse, save Jo and Ash, Dean finally stands and helps Castiel to his feet, keeping a wary arm around his waist when he stumbles a step.

“So, uh, you have fun staring at all these rocks?” Ash asks a moment later.

“Va te faire foutre, Vyacheslav,” is Castiel’s answer, and Ash clutches his heart in mock hurt, clucking his tongue at the pair of them before heading down a tunnel for ‘excavating’. Jo spares the pair of them a look, a wide grin plastered over her face, before she follows Ash’s path screaming obscenities at the boy.

When they’re both out of sight, Dean glances over to Castiel, who’s chewing on his lower lip and peering at his toes. And, really, Dean can’t be blamed when he pushes onto his tiptoes and kisses Castiel’s cheek. He pulls away to look at Castiel’s blush before grinning and murmuring, “Je t'aime bien.”

Castiel’s face goes beet red and for a moment, he looks seriously close to bolting. But the moment passes and his eyes get bigger and bigger to the point where Dean’s worried whether they’re going to fall out of his head. Obviously they don’t, but when Castiel’s face breaks in two with a grin, he returns it without a second thought.

And when Castiel entwines his fingers with his own and ducks down to whisper, “I like you as well,” in his ear, maybe Dean’s face breaks in half too.

**Author's Note:**

> **Translations (in order of appearance):**
> 
>   * Inspiration is a guest that does not willingly visit the lazy.-A Tchaikovsky quote
>   * Dude you couldn’t have picked a bigger cliché than Tchaikovsky.
>   * Fat old hag.
>   * Kiss my ass, Vyacheslav.
> 

> 
> **Other notes:**
> 
>   * I wanted Ash to have a ridiculous Russian name because it's a headcanon of mine. I also think he's a genius with languages and that at first everyone thought he'd be best at translations, but then computers happened.
>   * I'm not a big fan of John, so I don't like to write him into fluff drabbles.
>   * Ash's name means the 'worthy one', or 'one with great destiny'. His last name is that of old Russian royalty.
>   * Because I'm lame, Ash is a subset family of old Russian royalty.
>   * Castiel's last name means "of hope".
> 



End file.
